


I Hoped You Might Come Home With My T-Shirt On And Nothing Underneath

by fairdeath



Category: Markiplier - RPF, Youtube - RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Exhibitionism, Gen, Lingerie, Masturbation, Underwear Kink, Women's Underwear, implied exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 21:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8225167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/fairdeath
Summary: It should worry him how calmed he is at the sight of a white satin bow atop midnight black lace and cotton, right? Walking the Grump Space in nothing but a red flannel and women’s underwear certainly would be a sight, should anyone return without notice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking through my writing folder for my document I keep fic ideas on and found a document titled 'mark in wu'. Having no recollection of this document, I opened it up to find this gem.   
> This was, in case you cant gather, written in about??? May 2015?????  
>  **This is an abandoned work**

There aren't many disadvantages to filming in the Grump Space. There are constantly sugary snacks on a table or desk somewhere, no neighbours to aggravate with the sounds of disgruntled groans, spare equipment for any imaginable break, and someone is always around to have a conversation with or help out should an issue arise.  However, having people constantly within the space makes it hard to get as comfortable as Mark could in the privacy of his own home.

It is well known the Mark doesn’t like to wear pants when recording. When you are alone, there’s no one to startle with the fact that you’re in your underwear. More importantly, there’s no one to startle with the fact that you’re wearing _women’s_ underwear. This is the unfortunate flaw that comes with working in the Grump Space.

It isn’t like wearing women’s underwear is a _recent thing_ , though.  When he lived with his mother, one hasty morning lead him to bypass the fact that his underwear were slightly smaller than usual, only to realise hours later that he had managed to wear his mother’s underwear all day, and had felt oddly comforted by their fit. Quietly, he bought his own pair – nothing fancy; a simple boy leg cut in grey that closely mimicked the shape of his current underwear, only more firm fitting, and slightly shorter. Moving to Los Angeles had brought bolder choices out from within him, and with them came different cuts, colours, fabrics of underwear. It wasn’t sexual for him until he’d caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside his bed one summer evening, when the humid air caressed his skin as his hand moved back and forth across his dripping cock, hastily pulled from soft fabric. He wasn’t prepared to see himself looking so filthy; black nylon against pale skin, beaded sweat drawing lines across flushed skin, mouth agape, fist moving jauntily along his heavy length, abs tight in anticipation.

Mark often spends late nights at the Grump Space when he records. It isn’t planned for him to sit in front of studio lights and a camera for hours like that; however, time is a valuable commodity when recording in the Grump Space. Despite the ease he has learned to channel when recording, projecting your personality for extended periods of time is both physically, and emotionally draining.  By the time 10pm comes, Mark is ready to call it quits; the first two games had to be reinstalled, another had crashed, and it seemed everyone’s calls were emergencies. He is alone, left to twiddle his thumbs whilst the games reinstall, and whilst waiting to see the ‘play’ icons enable themselves, he decides to get comfortable to relieve some of the stress that has built up as nothing seems to go as planned.

It should worry him how calmed he is at the sight of a white satin bow atop midnight black lace and cotton, right? Walking the Grump Space in nothing but a red flannel and women’s underwear certainly would be a sight, should anyone return without notice. Instead, a cocktail of contentment and adrenaline fill him. Suzy, or God forbid, Barry could walk in at any moment, and yet the possibility of getting caught, of being found out, of being shamed for wearing them is… exhilarating.

So it’s effortless, thoughtless, to start recording again without pants. Of course, it is common of him to record without them, though never while wearing his more colourful array of underwear. Underwear hinting his indecency, the flannel caresses his thighs, barely below the eye-line of the camera. Raising his arm the slightest bit too far would result in the camera glimpsing his stomach, soft downy hairs trailing from his navel down, down, down. If he were scared just a little too far, the blue lace would be shown to the world. He knew that it shouldn’t make his blood run faster, make it deviate from his mind and head south, but that’s half the thrill, isn’t it; knowing that it shouldn’t, but does?

It isn’t until a more startling scare occurs that Mark realises the situation he had put himself in. It’s clear that his mind is scattered, even to Mark himself, as he jumps at the slightest hint of movement from the corner of his eye; both in game and out. He’s less focused on performing while playing, and more concerned existing within the situation he has placed himself in, prolonging the tension, the chance of being caught. Even worse, looking at himself in the window’s reflection, he sees himself truly for the first time once more; hair dishevelled with trademark volume, flannel sleeves pushed to the elbows, hints of chest peeking out from behind the collar, hem outlining thick thighs. This alone would be a regular occurrence; however, the outline of his cock straining against cotton, warmth spreading across his cheeks, and the slight shortness of breath he’s experiencing prove him to be quite the image.

He tells himself it isn’t a good idea – he’s midway through recording; his character is standing static and knee deep in building ambiance. If he happens to die, he’ll have to replay more than half the game, and with the ambiance as thick as it is currently, that’s almost a certainty. But… He _does_ look a right picture of dishevelment,

It isn’t his fault that the first hint of pressure against his swollen cock brings a breathless whine from his lips. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [10:26:14 PM] koujackoff: NICE LACE PANTIES RIGHT..... GOT THAT BRAZILLIAN CUT BC U NO ALL ASSES LOOK A+ IN THOSE  
> [10:26:18 PM] koujackoff: FUCKIN RED FLANNEL OVER THE TOP  
> [10:26:36 PM] koujackoff: GETTING OFF ON THE FACT PPL WOULD SEE IF HE JUMPED TOO HIGH @ A SCARE OR BUMPED THE CAMERA  
> [10:26:44 PM] koujackoff: i mean obv he can edit it after bUT LIKE DAMN


End file.
